Time and Time Again: The Bloopers
by Aietradaea
Summary: A sneaky look at what went on behind the scenes of my long Doctor Who fic, "Time and Time Again" - a humorous, cracky spin-off. Why did they let themselves be talked into doing fanfiction? *Bloopers'verse*
1. Chapter 1

**The Obligatory Disclaimer:** Unfortunately, I don't own Doctor Who or any associated characters, creatures, features, gadgets, gizmos or TARDISes. Hopefully it'll be obvious that it's the fictional characters I'm messing around with, _not _the actors.

Chapter-for-chapter, this follows my long, serious Doctor Who fic "Time and Time Again" (ID 5887979) – if you haven't read that, this probably won't make much sense to you. It's not written for any particular reason, just me having fun, really. I therefore can't guarantee it'll be finished - it'll just update sporadically, when I've got the time. Still, I hope you enjoy it, and I hope it can give you a bit of a laugh.

Check the batteries in those vortex manipulators, everyone - here we go! :)

* * *

"Gallifrey falling..."

The sound technicians disconnected the Visionary's microphone and flashed her a thumbs up across the set, and she breathed a silent sigh of relief, brushing her straggling hair out of her eyes with claw-like nails. Rassilon and the Doctor were now engaged in their final confrontation, and the props engineers held their breath – and then had to restrain themselves from slapping each other high-fives as Rassilon's gauntlet glowed blue with no additional problems. They had nearly been vapourized that morning after the first take by a furious Rassilon, when someone (who still hadn't owned up) had forgotten to add the insulated lining to the gauntlet and the static electricity had caused Rassilon's hair to stand on end. At the lunch break, Wilf had confessed that he was still struggling to keep a straight face.

"Get out of the way." The Master came in right on cue, drawing back his hand and flinging the bolt of energy past the Doctor.

"Ow!"

The Master nearly quailed under the furious gaze of the Woman who knelt behind Rassilon, rubbing her shoulder.

"CUT!"

Cameras stopped rolling, and the camera crew raised their eyes heavenwards as they reloaded with new rolls of film.

"I thought you said you'd practiced that!" the Director bellowed across the hall to the Master, who groaned in exasperation.

"I'd like to see you try it!"

The camera crew signaled to the Director, who clapped his hands loudly.

"All right, from your line, Doctor. Everyone in place? And…_action_!"

Rassilon silently wished that the Master had missed again as the energy bolt met its target and he felt his hearts skip a beat.

"You did this to me! All of my life!"

Off to one side, the Director signaled to the lighting technicians, who turned up the power on the backlights, praying the fuses would hold.

"_One_..._two_..._three_..._four..._"

Now the Writer took over, gesturing to the Doctor who moved forwards towards the blinding light from the Time Lock. His foot came down on something hard and metal, which slipped out from underneath him on the tile floor. He toppled backwards with a curse, and the Writer and Director waved frantically to Wilf in the nuclear containment booth to cut the power, but it was too late.

"Sorry," the Doctor apologized, kicking the gun out of the way. "I _did_ say these things are dangerous!"

"Well we need this scene the same as the original up until there," said the Director impatiently, replacing the gun by the Doctor's feet. "Now can we get someone over here to get that Time Lock back open? And Doctor, don't you give me that 'weakening the walls between dimensions' again," he added as the Doctor glanced at the ruins of the Immortality Gate with a troubled expression.

"Got them!" someone announced from over near the hastily repaired machine focusing the White Point Star, and the hall rumbled, heralding everyone to the return of Gallifrey to the sky outside. Silhouettes of the Time Lords faded into view – Rassilon appeared livid, and the Woman had to grab the back of his ceremonial robe to prevent him from rushing at the Doctor the moment the link was stable. The other two Time Lords were helping the Master to his feet.

"You O.K. over there?" the Director called, and the Master nodded, struggling to retain control of his life force as it flashed through his skin.

"Can we just get this over with?" he growled at the embarrassed Doctor as he passed him to return to his position at the back of the hall. "I'm not sure how much more of this I can take. And I'm _starving_!"

"Hear that?" said the Director to the Doctor. "Let's get it right this time – or _you_ can foot the power bill for keeping that Time Lock open if the nuclear bolt fails! Places, everyone – and…_action_!"

Nervously, the Director chewed his nails, but to his utmost relief, the Doctor reached the Master in the nick of time, dragging him back out of the Time Lock. Miraculously – thankfully – the bolt of energy that he managed to keep flowing from his hand shattered the Vinvocci glass behind them without a hitch, and Wilf needed no cue to throw himself to the ground and shield his head from the deadly splinters.

"Thanks," the Director mouthed to Rassilon with a thumbs-up as, with the final link broken, the Time Lock was sealed and the Lord President vanished back into the Time War. The lighting technician gave up wrestling with the dimmer switch and kicked the plug out of the wall, and the blinding glare died.

Now it was the Writer's turn to anxiously gnaw her knuckles as the cameras rolled and the Doctor and Wilf moved from the original scene and into her own scripting. A props technician monitoring the nuclear bolt raised a finger to signal that it had begun to overload – Wilf took his cue, and the camera crew began donning radiation-proof overalls.

"Well I'm not letting you die with him…"

Caught off guard, the camera crew hadn't been expecting them to make it this far without a hitch, and jostled for position as the three characters headed towards the door. Outside in the courtyard, a props technician jumped up, startled, and dodged out of sight of the cameras.

"TARDIS! TARDIS!" the Director was mouthing frantically at him, flecks of sweat dripping from his brow as he hurried after the exhausted characters, and the technician scrambled to check the scanners and make sure the TARDIS hadn't moved further out of sync with their timelines. A notoriously unreliable prop, the blue box defied all their expectations and faded smoothly into sight when the Doctor aimed his sonic screwdriver. The Director and Writer waited just long enough to make sure the characters made it safely to the TARDIS before diving behind a lead-lined screen where the technician monitoring the nuclear bolt raised a fifth finger and the blast incinerated the rest of the set around them.

"No going back now," the Director breathed, and with a second to spare, he and the Writer followed the characters into the TARDIS. The relative timeline inside the capsule must have already moved on a few minutes, as the crew who had been waiting inside were already leaning against the console drinking coffee.

"That's a wrap everyone!" the Director cheered, nearly collapsing with relief. Wilf was rubbing his back with both hands.

"I'm getting too old for this," he muttered, and shot an envious look at the Doctor, who was grinning with exhilaration. "It's all right for you young'uns – you do this sort of stuff every day! And _you_ are bloody heavy!" This last was directed at the Master, who was by now sitting up and rubbing his head. He shot Wilf a sour glare, but was still too dazed to retort. Why had he let himself be talked into doing fanfiction?


	2. Chapter 2

**The Obligatory Disclaimer:** Unfortunately, I don't own Doctor Who or any associated characters, creatures, features, gadgets, gizmos or TARDISes.

* * *

"I just don't get it," the Doctor murmured, running his hands through his hair and stepping back from the console. "I mean, we know the external shielding is damaged, but surely that shouldn't have _this_ effect." The props and lighting technicians exchanged uncertain glances. If even the Doctor was baffled, they wouldn't have a hope of figuring out why the entire TARDIS was now flooded in blood-red light when it should have been…

"The fanfiction _clearly_ states that we need a 'welcoming pale green glow'!" the Director fumed. "So why don't we have it?" The Doctor and the technical team shrugged, and the Doctor tweaked another dial just in case, to no effect.

"We _need_ that welcoming pale green glow!" the Director raged. "Get me my welcoming pale green glow, or… or we're writing Captain Jack out of the script!"

"Hey!" The Writer, unnoticed near the door of the TARDIS, made to protest, and the entire crew sent her a desperate look.

"Can't you rewrite it or something?" a sound engineer pleaded.

"What – take Jack out?"

"No!" the engineer gasped, horrified. "No – just…just come up with some reason why the console has gone red. You know – just something sort of… sci-fi-ish…"

"Not plausibly, I can't," said the Writer. "It looks too much like… actually, it looks an awful lot like the Paradox Machine." All heads turned back to the eerie crimson console, and the Director whirled to throw the blame on someone.

"Where's the Master?" he demanded.

"Still on his lunch break," someone answered, and at a violent gesture from the Director, they scurried down into the TARDIS corridors to locate him.

Some time later, the still-ravenous Time Lord appeared at the door, and he smirked as the red light pulsed brighter through the TARDIS console room.

"Oh, don't tell me the great Doctor has forgotten how to change the colour scheme!"

"Stop gloating – just get on and fix it!" the Director snapped, and the Master beckoned the Doctor over to a screen on the control panel.

"See – you go to 'Properties', then 'Appearance'," he said slowly, with an infuriating smugness in his voice. "There's the colour scheme – see, it's set to 'Paradox Machine'? You want 'RTD TARDIS'. Pity, really – I rather liked it like this." The room faded to grey, and then the familiar green hue lit up the console and the Director clapped the Master on the back.

"Right – let's do this thing! Places! And…_action_!"

The dialogue ran smoothly, and the Writer nodded her approval as she followed the script through.

"He's going to kill you," said Wilf.

"You bet," the Master muttered out of the corner of his mouth, and snickered.

"CUT!" The Director stomped across the deck and stood glaring down at the Master, who rolled his eyes.

"Oh come on – it was just a joke!"

"We don't have _time_ for jokes!"

"Actually, our relative timelines are moving at a rate of one over ten to the power of eight to the exterior," the Doctor put in. "The fandom won't be expecting an update for… ooh, another 547,945 years, I'd say. Give or take a couple of millennia for flux, of course."

"Shut up," said the Director over his shoulder, and turned back to the Master. "And if you don't start taking this seriously, I swear we'll knock you out for real!"

With the cameras rolling again, the Director reflected on something he'd heard someone say once when he'd told them he was going into fanfiction-directing. Never work with children or animals, or something like that. He made a mental note to tell that person to add Time Lords to the list.

The Doctor was now limping around the edge of the control room. He inserted his fingers through a grate on the floor and tugged. Again, he tugged, harder, grunting with the effort, but to no avail.

"It's stuck!" he gasped.

"CUT!"

A team of props technicians levered the grating out of the deck, lined the edges with felt and replaced it over the hole, while the Doctor watched, testing his weight gingerly on his injured foot.

"I don't stay injured for long, do I?" he asked the Writer, concerned.

"Spoilers," she replied, with a secretive smile.

Once again, the Doctor limped across the deck – this time, the grating lifted smoothly, and the cameras panned over to Wilf and the Master.

"Can't find the salad tongs!" the Doctor's voice called from beneath them.

"CUT!"

The Master, still lying prone on the deck, began to idly tap out a rhythm of four with his fingers, and the Director gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to step on his hand as he strode past towards the props cupboard.

Eventually, the salad tongs were located and flung violently at the Doctor, who appeared almost relieved to disappear down the hole in the deck. The cameras zoomed in on the Master when the Doctor gently placed electrodes on his temples. Nothing happened. The Master opened his eyes blearily, his own dissipating energy flashing through him.

"I do need that, you know," he said weakly. "Did you plug it in?"

Guiltily, the Doctor hurried back under the deck.

"CUT!"


	3. Chapter 3

**The Obligatory Disclaimer:** If I owned Doctor Who...well, let's not go there, shall we? Don't own Coronation Street either. If I did, it would have decidedly more...Daleks.

* * *

"This version gives me the creeps," one of the props technicians could be heard to mutter over the clank and clatter of dishes as the caterers prepared the set. She nodded over her shoulder, gesturing in the direction of the Master, who stood leaning against the wall, arms folded and unable to prevent his eyes from following the food as it was brought in and laid out on the table. The young man the technician had been addressing – whose badge read "FanFiction Catering" – nodded sympathetically.

"We're flat out at the moment, we are," he replied. "All these 'End of Time' fanfictions – and they've all got _him_. It's a wonder we can keep up with them."

"And they're all…you know…" The props technician waved her hands in vague motions about her face.

"…'Skeletor'?" the caterer supplied. "Yeah…well, most of them. There's some that've managed to fix themselves. Plenty more to keep us busy, though."

"Wonder what this version thinks of it all."

"I think we might be about to find out…" The caterer jerked his thumb over at the waiting characters.

Deep in conversation with the Director, the Writer had failed to notice that the Master had sidled over and was leaning towards her. In an instant, he was holding the copy of the finished fanfiction manuscript and retreated several paces with a satisfied smirk. Still unheeded, he began to flick through the thick wad of paper.

"…but you're not _pairing_ them as such, are you?" the Director was saying, and the Writer shook her head vehemently.

"They're engaged – it's just canon," she insisted. "Besides, they're just kind of part of the setting for when Wilf-"

"What about the Doctor? You're not going to pair him?"

"_What_?" Eavesdropping from nearby, the Doctor sent the Director a decidedly startled look. The Director shot him a glare and lowered his voice.

"Have you written these Time Lords _totally_ asexual? Both of them?"

"Don't see why not," the Writer shrugged. "Doesn't it make-"

"Am I _really_ this insane?" came the Master's incredulous voice, and the Writer and Director both spun around to see him staring at the Writer from over the top of the manuscript.

"Hey – that's mine!" the Writer snapped, snatching back the manuscript. She hastily checked the open page, and was relieved to see that the Master had read no further than the end of the scene they were preparing.

"'Fraid so, mate," a lighting technician called over his shoulder with a grin. He climbed down from his stepladder and mopped his brow, exhausted. Really, the "white light emitting from walls" device seemed to be all the rage in sci-fi…he almost found himself longing for the filament lightbulbs and floral wallpaper of _Coronation Street_ fanfiction. No – he quickly corrected himself. Even the pre-"Runaway Bride" Donna Nobles were more bearable than Ken and Deirdre Barlow.

By now, the caterers had finished laying the table and were being shooed from the room by the Director. The Master sat down on the white hospital bed in the corner, the Doctor headed out of the isomorphically controlled door, and a sound began to pulse through the air.

_One two three four…one two three four…_

"Places," the Director called. "And…_action_!"

Ten minutes into the scene, the Director was already rubbing his temples, wincing as the drumbeat escalated moments before the Master collapsed.

"I hope you're not planning to use this point-of-view too often," he whispered to the Writer, who fidgeted. Outside, the sound engineers reclined in their chairs and sipped coffee. Forget expensive pop music soundtracks – it didn't get much easier than this.

While the Writer anxiously read and reread the manuscript, following every last detail to the letter, the Director allowed himself to relax a little.

"…you saved my life back there," said the Doctor, and the Director gave the camera crew a thumbs up to keep rolling. The first two scenes had been somewhat hairy, but he was fairly certain that it would be smooth running from here onwards. From what he had seen of the manuscript, it was a fairly introverted fanfiction – lots of nice, quiet dialogue; not many high-budget, octane-fuelled action sequences…

"…oh, you _must_ be able to hear it now, Doctor!" the Master laughed. The Doctor hastily climbed to his feet, and the Master moved forwards.

"Ow!"

"Ow!"

The entire technical team cringed at the _thud_ as the two Time Lords' foreheads collided and they stumbled apart.

"CUT!"

Later, the Director would remind himself to never again let his guard down on a slow-moving psychological fanfiction. For now, though, he was faced with two Time Lords who, having quickly recovered from the initial shock, were now in fits of laughter.

"O.K., O.K., very funny," he growled irritably. There was silence for a second or two as the Doctor and the Master looked at him, rubbing their foreheads, before dissolving into giggles again. Hearing barely disguised snickering, the Director swung around to point at the camera crew. "I want that take _erased_." The camera crew exchanged glances. A nod here, a wink there, and the instant the Director's back was turned, the film reel had been slipped into someone's pocket.

"You…we…that _hurt_!" the Doctor managed to choke out.

"Yes – try not to get too carried away next time," said the Director peevishly to the Master, who cleared his throat and nodded emphatically, lips pressed together and trying his utmost to look serious.

"Right, let's try that again." The Director clapped his hands loudly and motioned to the whispering camera crew. "From your line, Doctor – 'I can help'. And…_action_."

From off-set, behind the isomorphic doors, the Director could still hear whispering, but he did his utmost to ignore it, watching the characters for any sign of deviation from the written mood.

"Not for _you_, Doctor – what do you take me for. No – I…" The Master trailed off, meeting the Doctor's eyes. There was a suppressed snort that could have come from either of them, and then before the Director had even had a chance to open his mouth, the pair were once again in hysterics.

"She…she _slapped_ you!" the Master gasped. The Doctor was almost too breathless to reply.

"Oh, and you think…you think I didn't see…that little 'talk' you got from…from Lord Cole?"

"I wonder if the slash versions are this uncooperative," the Director commented to the Writer.

That shut them up. Wiping tears of mirth from the corners of his eyes, the Doctor raised his eyebrows, wondering if he had misheard.

"_What_?"

"People slash _us_?" The Master eyed the Doctor nervously, edging away from him; it was some reassurance to see that the Doctor was doing the same.

"Oh, yes – all the time," the Director replied casually, catching the Doctor's eye. "There's hundreds of them around at the moment. I saw one on the _Valiant _where you-"

"Well, I suppose it makes a change from trying to kill me," said the Doctor, a cheeky glint in his eye that his nemesis failed to notice. The Master put one hand on his stomach, the other to his mouth, looking as though he was regretting consuming three Christmas dinners' worth of food at the start of the scene.

"I think I'm going to be sick…" he mumbled queasily.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Obligatory Disclaimer:** One day...one day, I will write an episode of Doctor Who, and it will break every single guideline the BBC set their script writers - massively under- or over-budget; at least half an hour too long or too short; alternating head-spinningly between laugh-out-loud comedy and dark, serious angst and insanity; with a trippy progressive rock soundtrack by Rick Wakeman and Mike Oldfield; and probably almost entirely from the Master's point of view, with an alarming lack of Amy Pond or River Song. And character death...lots of lovely character death... Which is probably why I don't own Doctor Who.

Don't worry, I'm not going to give _every_ chapter of the original fic the "Bloopers" treatment - don't want the novelty to wear off. I would like to have some fun with Jack and the Formicidae eventually, though...

By the way, the line in the last chapter about the Master getting a "little talk" from Lord Cole of Tarminster has now been turned into a full-length oneshot called "Just In Time" (ID 6366938).

Apologies for the alien/avian joke. I couldn't resist. :P

* * *

"O.K., Doctor – just hold _very_ still…" The props technicians clustered behind the Time Lord, leaning forward and nudging each other out of the way to peer at the Time Beetle that clung to his back. Its offspring had already hatched, no doubt about it. However, the characters had been sat in the TARDIS library for well over four hours now and the tiny juvenile insect, its thorny claws firmly gripping the edges of its mother's carapace, had showed no sign of wanting to disperse. Wilf had wandered off some time ago; his voice could now be heard coming from the medieval kitchen, where he would probably be onto his fifth cup of tea by now and was inquiring of the lighting technicians about the fates that various versions of Donna had come to in past fanfictions. The Doctor had procured a cricket ball from his coat pocket and was now tossing it up and down in one hand, whistling tunelessly.

The props technicians scratched their noses and shook their heads, feeling completely out of their depth.

"We're not employed to deal with…wildlife," one of them announced eventually, and there were mutters of agreement as they stepped back.

_Wildlife_… A thought occurred to the Director, and he turned to the Writer.

"You must know something, surely – aren't you an alien vet, or something?"

"Avian," she corrected him. "And anyway, I'm actually still training. Not a clue." The Director scowled, first at the Writer, then at the uncooperative insect, and finally at the Doctor, who obliviously attempted to bounce the cricket ball off the side of a bookshelf. It dropped to the ground with a thud, and the Doctor dived to retrieve it.

"What about bribing it?" a sound engineer suggested. "You know – like in 'The Birds', where they put bird food in the kids' hair?"

"Good idea," the Director replied, brightening somewhat and pulling out his cellphone. "What do they eat?"

"Potential time energy," came the Doctor's muffled voice from beneath the bookshelf as he scrabbled for the cricket ball. The Director opened his mouth, and then shut it again abruptly, pressing the "end call" button on the cellphone rather more viciously than he intended. FanFiction Catering might have been able to supply canisters of noxious gas for Macra, channel rift energy for Gelth and procure enough blood to feed a whole clan of Plasmavores…but practically speaking, there were limits.

"Oh, shut up," he growled at the Doctor, who had clambered to his feet and was once again idly whistling, spinning the cricket ball on the end of his finger. Surprised, the Doctor sent the Director a look of wide-eyed innocence, which he pointedly ignored. An awkward silence hung in the library for several minutes before a props technician spoke up.

"Ooh, I've got an idea!"

"Excellent!" the Director exclaimed, almost collapsing with relief. "Wilf – get in here! Come on, everyone – let's do this thing!" There was a flurry of activity, with the camera crew loading up rolls of film and positioning themselves at various angles around the coffee table and chairs. Wilf appeared at the door; the Director beckoned him over, clapping the props engineer on the back.

"Go on, then – show us what you've got!"

"Right, Doctor – if you just come over here for a minute…" the props technician grinned. The Time Lord obeyed, and the props technician examined the Beetle on his back for several seconds, chewing his lip thoughtfully – before reaching out, plucking the juvenile Beetle off the Doctor and placing it firmly on Wilf's back. Stunned silence descended. Beaming proudly, the props technician stepped back; the entire crew watched as the young Beetle waved its forelimbs in the air, seeking its mother's pheromones, before settling itself comfortably against Wilf's cardigan with its claws firmly entangled in the wool, tiny mandibles poised over the back of the old man's neck.

"Uh…pardon me for asking, but-" Wilf began hesitantly.

"You _idiot_!" the Director exploded, turning furiously on the props technician, who cowered. "We've got a fanfiction to create here! People are _reading_ this – they need to know that something's actually happening in this chapter. What do you think's going to brush past Wilf's feet now?"

"Ah – I thought there'd be something like that," Wilf muttered.

"_Nothing_, that's what!" the Director was still fuming, face reddening. "How are we supposed to create this scene now? The whole script will have to be rewritten – and have you _any_ idea how long it takes to rearrange parallel dimensions? That Beetle was supposed to…oh."

His eyes had fallen on the Doctor, who was expertly rolling the cricket ball across the back of his hand. Following his gaze, the eyes of the rest of the crew drifted to the Doctor, who stopped mid-whistle and clutched the cricket ball protectively to his chest.

Eleven takes later, the Director's knees were aching and the dust from the carpet in the ancient library was beginning to aggravate his hayfever. China cups and saucers clinked as the Doctor and Wilf chatted, and he visually re-estimated the distance between Wilf and his position behind the Doctor's chair. With the meticulous accuracy of a competitive lawn bowler, he drew back his hand and gently rolled the cricket ball across the floor. Crossing fingers and toes and even considering praying to whatever gods of fanfiction might exist, the Director followed its movement…closer and closer to Wilf…and _finally_, at long last, it passed him at just the right trajectory and speed to graze past his foot and continue off-set. Wilf reached down to swat at the cobwebs under the chair; the Doctor continued his filler dialogue; and at his back, the Director slumped against a bookshelf, almost overcome with relief.

"That's a wrap…" he giggled half-hysterically.


	5. Chapter 5

**The Obligatory Disclaimer:** Actually, strangely, this disclaimer is to make it clear that I _do_, in fact, own two of the characters in this chapter. They're obviously parodies, but not of any specific original character - that is, they're not aimed at anyone in particular. The name "Luluettaitrelundar" is half my own invention; the title of the "Dark Phoenix" is just one I used to see an awful lot on Lord of the Rings roleplays when I was younger. If either or both resemble one of your characters...well, that's your fault for using too many predictable clichés!

Vamp61616 - glad you think so. :] Thanks for the review!

* * *

Clustered in the centre of the bright, white room, the props technicians and set supervisors formed a tight circle around two occupational health and safety inspectors who were demonstrating the correct use of a fire extinguisher.

"So after you've checked the safety inspection certificate is current and you have the right sort of extinguisher for your fire, you rotate this knob three times anticlockwise on the left," one was droning.

"You have to remove these four pins first," the other put in. "Green first, then blue…"

"Oh, quite right – of course…" Frowning intently and jostling for position, the crew didn't even look over their shoulders at the black-clad, hooded figure who slipped in through the door and slunk around the edge of the room to the far corner, hands shoved deep in the pocket of his hoodie.

"…and then, holding the canister at an angle of approximately twenty degrees forward to the vertical, you aim at the base of the fire, release this catch and squeeze _this_ handle. Not this one – that will reset the pressure gauge," the first safety inspector concluded. "Remember – a quick response saves lives. Any questions?" A props technician raised her hand.

"Yeah – what kind of extinguisher do we need for Pyroviles?"

"That would be a code FOP4X02," the second safety inspector answered promptly. "Not to be confused with the other red canisters labelled WOM4X16, which are…" Behind him, the Master's eyes furtively swept the room from beneath his hood. Seeing the crew still occupied, now donning heavy heat protection gear, the Time Lord sat himself cross-legged on the bed and reached into his pocket, pulling out a crumpled, stapled-together sheaf of paper. With a contented smirk, he smoothed it out and opened it, flipping quickly to the last few pages.

A roar and sudden rush of heat caused him to glance up as the set supervisors fired up several flamethrowers and the safety inspectors departed, the isomorphic door sliding shut at their backs.

"Watch out over there," a set supervisor called out to him, and the Master hastily jumped up and headed for the other side of the room, wincing slightly at the sight of the billowing orange flames.

"I'm sure the Doctor would have been pleased to do the job for you," he muttered with a scowl as the flamethrowers incinerated the bed where he had been sat seconds before. Smoke filled the room as the set supervisors proceeded to reduce the rest of the sparse contents of the room to smouldering ashes, one turning a blue flame on the intercom above the door.

A respiratory bypass system couldn't keep the smoke from the Master's eyes, which were smarting by the time the air cleared. He wiped them on the edge of his sleeve and, raising his head, was surprised to be met with the intense gaze of a pair of dark brown eyes that seemed almost familiar.

"Oh, Master…" said a soft, feminine voice, and the owner of the eyes stepped towards him. All eyes turned to stare at the girl, who seemed somehow to draw the attention of everyone in the room; the Master quickly moved the sheaf of paper in his hand behind his back, still wondering why those eyes seemed so familiar – he was certain he had never seen the girl before in his life. A wide mouth, straight blonde hair swept back into a ponytail with strands framing a face that would have easily fit the human definition of beautiful, dressed distinctly 21st century American in blue jeans and a tight tank top. Her hand reached up towards his face and he blinked, more in consternation than at her brushing at the corner of his eye. "It's O.K. – I'm here now."

"_What_?"

"How did you get in?" a set supervisor demanded, striding forwards. "That door's supposed to be isomorphically locked – once it's closed, it'll only open for the Doctor."

"I know," the girl replied calmly, turning and flashing a broad smile with two rows of perfect, white teeth. "But I just _had_ to see the Master before the scene started."

"But it's programmed to the Doctor's DNA," the set supervisor protested. With what was unmistakeably a knowing smile, the girl turned back to the Master, raising her other hand towards him. He ducked aside and opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by a flash of his uncontrolled life force turning his skin to glass. The girl's dark eyes widened and she stepped forward again.

"But I _healed_ you!" she gasped. "I took the drums away the first time we-"

"Who the hell are you?" the Master finally managed to splutter, back now against the wall.

"Oh, Master," the girl giggled. "I love it when you play those games. It's me, Luluettaitrelundar, your Lulu. Now come here and let me sort you out."

"Ugh…you're as bad as the Doctor," the Master grimaced. "I don't want your sympa-" Lulu giggled again, and the Master was alarmed to see her wink, long eyelashes fluttering.

"I don't mean healing you again – it's so cute to see you suffer."

"Wha-"

"Allons-y, _Master_," she breathed huskily, and a moment later, the Master's respiratory bypass system was called into action again. Too stunned to even struggle, his eyebrows leaped upwards, the paper falling from his hand – and over the catcalls and wolf whistles of the crew, no-one heard the isomorphic door hissing open and the group who entered.

"Well I'm not surprised she didn't give it back," the Director was saying to the Doctor. "How would you like it if someone was bouncing a cricket ball off your insides? Your TAR- Oh." They stopped short, lost for words at the sight that met them. Abruptly, Lulu pulled back from the Master with a small shriek, spinning to face the Doctor.

"Oh father, I'm so sorry!" she cried, covering her mouth with her hands. "He just…I couldn't do anything…he must have hypnotized me – I-"

"This one's _yours_?" The Master's wide-eyed shock had quickly faded into a malicious grin at the Doctor's bewilderment. "Well, _that_ explains a lot…"

"At least _I'm_ a full-blooded Time Lady," another voice broke in from the other corner of the room, which seemed to have inexplicably darkened. A tall, willowy figure stepped from the shadows, brushing a curtain of raven hair aside from her heavily made-up face with long, manicured, black-painted nails. While the lighting technicians who had entered with the Director hurried fretfully over to the corner, the newcomer moved to the centre of the room, her strangely violet eyes downcast. "Hello father." She sent a brief, stilted nod towards the Master, who raised one eyebrow and blinked at her black hoodie and tight-fitting black jeans – and then her eyes fell on the Doctor and her full lips smeared in black lipstick curved upwards in a smile. The Doctor returned the smile amicably enough, but when she started to approach him, he was unable to disguise the nervous glance he gave the Director.

"Excuse me, er…" the Director began.

"I am the Dark Phoenix," the young woman said with an air of impatience, as though she had already reminded him of her name several times that day. "Or Pheonix. No – I think it's Phoenix."

"Right. Now, are you sure you're in the right fanfiction?"

"Hello there – I'm the Doctor." The Doctor wiggled his fingers in a friendly wave, but to his dismay, Phoenix came to a halt and her lower lip trembled.

"You…you don't remember me?"

"Well…no – no, I've never seen you before in my- oh no, nonono – don't cry, please don't cry…" Her eyes had filled with tears which were now streaming freely down her face. Lulu had also reached the Doctor by then, and was sobbing hysterically into her hands. Anxious to offer some reassurance, the Time Lord reached out and patted them both on the shoulder, but to no effect.

To the Director's relief, the Writer hurried into the room at that point, trying to balance a ginger beer bottle in the crook of her elbow while she rummaged in a book-bag slung over her shoulder.

"Are these your characters?" the Director asked. "You said you were using some OCs, didn't you?"

"Uh…" The Writer looked up, and then quickly buried herself in the book-bag again. "Probably not – most of mine are male. Has anyone seen the fanfiction manuscript?"

"Look, ladies," said the Director. Unnoticed at the back of the room, the Master quickly stepped sideways onto the sheaf of paper. "I think there's been some mistake. This is the set for 'Time and Time Again'. Have you double-checked your-"

"It was _him_, wasn't it?" Phoenix burst out suddenly, pointing an accusing finger at the Master. "He wiped your mind, Doctor – he _never_ wants me to be happy!"

"Oh yeah?" the Master retorted. "And when would I _ever_ do the Doctor the service of making him forget-"

"Oh, father – how _could_ you?" Phoenix wailed. "Doctor, please remember – it's me, Pheonix, your true love. You loved me even when you found out who I am. I faced the Daleks with you – I absorbed the Time Vortex for you…"

"Hang on a minute – wasn't that…" the Doctor began.

"_Mummy_!" Lulu squealed. The entire crew boggled at her. The Doctor opened and closed his mouth several times, apparently speechless; the Writer began counting on her fingers, frowning doubtfully.

"How dare you!" Phoenix hissed. "That human girl died in the Auton attack. _I_ looked into the heart of the TARDIS – and it stayed with me…" In an instant, she appeared to be bathed in a dazzling golden aura, ebony hair streaming out around her head as she rose several inches above the ground.

"But you couldn't have!" Lulu's eyes blazed with a golden fire and her voice seemed to take on an ethereal, dreamy quality. "The Bad Wolf was passed to me before I was even born…"

"It's the _Dark Pheonix_," Phoenix insisted. Locked in luminous confrontation, neither paid any heed as the characters and crew sidled past, the Writer stuffing a wad of paper into her book-bag. Passing each other as they hastened through the isomorphic door, the Doctor and the Master exchanged glances and, with the barest hint of a shared smile, shrugged simultaneously.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** I _own_ at Guitar Hero! Hear that? _Own_! Don't own Doctor Who, though.

**Warnings:** Whoa! A _warning_ on "Bloopers"? o_O Actually, this whole chapter's kind of weird (well, it's a bit different to the rest, I think) - but specifically, the warning is for violence. Nothing graphic, and it's only brief, but I thought I ought to say something, just in case.

* * *

Since the outlawing of RPF, there had been precious little work for roadies. A scattered few had found high-paid employment in the Wrestling archive, and rumour had it that a number were still swinging spotlights from rigging and shifting amplifier stacks in a black market niche of Justin Bieber RPF thriving in the X-overs archive – but for the most part, they had hung up their leather jackets, removed their oversized earrings and retrained as set supervisors or props technicians.

For the out-of-work former roadie currently on her hands and knees in the depths of the TARDIS, three screwdrivers in her mouth and a massive wrench in one hand, a rare chance had been presented to load up her van and head for the Doctor Who archive. She had never worked in a sci-fi archive before, but the Director's request had sounded more-or-less along the lines of what she expected from the genre, and she had accepted the job without hesitation: to fill a dimensionless corridor in a transcendentally proportioned time capsule with grey fog.

"Oh, they use all these long words, but they don't really _mean_ anything," her colleague had reassured her as they heaved a massive barrel of dry ice into the back of the van. "Probably just means it's bigger on the outside or something."

Unfortunately for the pair of them, forgetting their copies of the "FanFiction Pocket Dictionary of Sci-Fi Technobabble" was not the worst of their problems. Nor was the fact that it seemed the Director hadn't been exaggerating when he had stressed the importance of arriving on time to the set, to the thousandth of a second – although the roadie had never before been three weeks late for production for pausing to sneeze before opening the TARDIS door. Nor were the characters – even though apparently only one was human, one could have single-handedly made the "FanFiction Pocket Dictionary of Sci-Fi Technobabble" obsolete, one had a rather unnerving tendency to vanish the moment anyone's back was turned without explanation for her sombre and cryptic statements, and one had surveyed the roadies with a glint in his eye that made them feel disconcertingly like prime beef steaks in a butcher's window.

No – what _really_ had the roadie gritting her teeth and cursing under her breath was the rusting block of metal and wires she was wrestling with. Alone, at that; her colleague had headed off down the corridor nearly an hour ago looking for a wall socket, and she had neither seen nor heard from him – or anyone else for that matter – since.

And still, the long-disused smoke machine offered not even a vapour. With a growl, she swung the wrench to clang violently against the side of the machine; several dead moths and a large spider dropped out, and she yelped in alarm and jumped to her feet. The screwdrivers clattered to the floor, but the sound seemed almost half-hearted in the silent corridor, dying away as if afraid to disturb the eerie stillness. A moment later, her heart leaped into her mouth at a crackling voice that burst from the walkie-talkie in her pocket.

"We are go to seal off the medieval kitchen."

Undisturbed for seven years in the pipes of the smoke machine, the spider must have felt just as bewildered as the roadie to find itself in a dimensionless grey corridor of a time capsule; the roadie might have felt some pity for it if it had not, on righting itself, headed for her exposed toes in her slashed leather boots. She stepped backwards hastily, but the temporal-spatial layout of the corridor must have shifted again and she stubbed her heel painfully on the sharp metal corner of the smoke machine.

"Oh…_smeg_!" she swore, and flung the wrench at the spider. "That sci-fi enough for you?"

…

"Hello there?" The Director raised a hand in a cautious wave as he caught a glimpse of a figure some way ahead of him. At least the roadies must have gotten the smoke machine working by now – a thick, shrouding mist was steadily filling the grey corridor, and the Director could barely see further than he could reach. "Wilf, is that you?" As he drew closer, the figure became more distinct, discernable even in its white blouse and skirt.

"Is the time upon us?" the Woman asked when he reached her.

"No, we're not quite ready to go yet," the Director replied, turning this way and that to try and work out how far he had come. "We've lost Wilf – you haven't seen him around here, have you? He's supposed to meet you first."

"The soldier will find himself when he is called to advance," said the Woman solemnly.

"Yes, but _I_ need to find him, otherwise we won't get any advancing done." A sound reached the Director's ears that could have been distant swearing, and he swung around, squinting through the fog.

"'Forward he cried from the rear, and the front line died,'" the Woman pronounced gravely behind him.

"Isn't that…?" He turned back, but the Woman was gone.

…

The set supervisor's footsteps sounded strangely muffled as he raced down the corridor, clutching two walkie-talkies in sweating hands. One of the gadgets was emitting a faint hiss of static, but the other was half-crushed and cracked as though it had been stamped on hard by feet in solid boots. He couldn't be sure how long he had been running for since he had entered the obscuring fog that now filled the corridor and was starting to escape into the rest of the TARDIS. When he eventually ran into – quite literally – a sound engineer replacing a panel on the wall over a sheet of soundproof insulation, he was red-faced and puffing for breath.

"Where's…have you seen…the Master?" he gasped. The sound engineer shook her head.

"Haven't seen him all day. Did they find Wilf?"

"Locked in…kitchen…didn't get out…" He waved the walkie-talkie to indicate that he had called the Director, but in his haste, he brandished the broken one, which fell open and dropped several springs and two batteries on the floor.

"Whose is that?" the sound engineer asked, eyeing it curiously.

"Props engineer. Supposed to be supervising the Master…fixing the timeline navigation apparatus. Can't find either of them _anywhere_," he groaned. Concern passed across the sound engineer's face and she raised her own walkie-talkie.

"Director?" she called into it. "Do you know where-"

"Not now, not now," the Director's voice crackled irritably. "Don't ask me to find _anyone_ else 'til I've found myself – I mean, where I am – I mean…O.K., nearly there. The Doctor's letting Wilf out of the kitchen – could someone pop down and let the Writer know we're nearly ready?"

"I thought she was with you." The sound engineer and the set supervisor exchanged glances.

"No – she's down in the med bay revising the last few chapters," the Director answered. "Anyone know if that timeline navigation apparatus is fixed yet?"

"That's what we're trying to say – we've lost-"

An audible curse was abruptly cut off as the Director disconnected his walkie-talkie; there was a tense silence, and then another voice gradually phased in like a badly tuned radio.

"-nyone seen those roadies?"

…

The lights were dimmed in the medical bay of the TARDIS. In the centre of the room, sat cross-legged on the floor, the Writer was chewing the end of a bright green biro and frowning thoughtfully. Before her, she held the fanfiction manuscript open to a page somewhere near the end, and music blared in her ears from an iPod that lay on the ground beside her.

She raised her head to survey the blank wall in front of her, and then bent over the paper and scribbled something in a margin; a moment later, the wall contained a rectangular window that looked into a darkened containment room. With a satisfied nod and a flourish of the pen, she underlined several words and reached for the iPod to turn up the volume of the music.

"'The lunatic is in the hall…'" she sang to herself, clicking the pen absent-mindedly. As she ran her finger along the text that followed, the lights flared brightly, causing the glass of the window to reflect the contents of the room. Had she happened to glance up at that point, she might have seen the dark silhouette framed in the doorway to the corridor. Moving with an almost feline grace, his footfalls making almost no noise despite his heavy workboots, the Master approached the Writer from behind. In one hand, he held a steel spanner, which he hefted to test its weight and then raised above his shoulder…he swung hard, and seconds later, the Writer slumped forward and crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

Grinning to himself, the Master reached over the Writer's arm and plucked the fanfiction manuscript from her limp hand. He dropped the spanner and began to flick through the pages to the end.

"Oh, that's _very_ old-school you." Startled, the Master spun around to see the Director entering the medical bay, alone but still facing him with a disappointing lack of apprehension. "Mind you," the Director continued, "this _is_ the chapter where you hypnotize someone, isn't it? You're bound to have a few of your earlier traits showing through today." The Master scowled.

"As long as I won't be going back to plastic daffodils and killer armchairs…" He paused and added lightly, his tone that of casual indifference, "_Will_ I get a chance to take over the world this time round, anyway?"

"Can't tell you that." The Director held out his hand. "Now give that back – you know the rules."

"Just the last page," the Master protested, clutching the fanfiction manuscript protectively to his chest. "Last line, then."

"Won't do you much good, the way it's written at the moment."

"What? What's that supposed to mean?" The Master looked around the room with sudden alarm. "This is a medical bay - who's going to die? Am I going to die? Oh…" He wrinkled his nose in disgust. "_Please_ don't tell me the Doctor nurses me back to health."

"I doubt you'll be happy with anything unless you conquer at least half a galaxy," the Director said. "So why don't you just wait and see?"

"What about the drums?" the Master persisted with increasing desperation. "They're all talking about fix-it fics over at FanFiction HQ. The _constant_ noise – you have no idea…" There was a trace of pity in the Director's eyes as he moved forward, reaching for the manuscript.

"You need to concentrate more by this chapter, remember," he said warningly; the Master opened his mouth to retort, but was cut off by a rush of energy that glowed through his skin.

"That's not-" he attempted, but could barely get the words out before his flesh became translucent once again. Life force flashing painfully through him, he raised his hands to his head and the paper fell from his hand. The Director picked it up and pocketed it just as the Master recovered.

"Come up to the grey corridor when you're ready," he said, patting the Time Lord on the back, and he departed, pulling out his cellphone to ring for a medic to attend to the still out-cold Writer.

Pale, seething with anger, the Master glared after the Director with loathing blazing in his eyes.

"That's _not fair_!"


End file.
